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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886814">cursed words ;; arthur morgan</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyrogers/pseuds/morganmarston'>morganmarston (buckyrogers)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Gun Violence, Minor Character Death, Prostitution</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:35:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,886</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886814</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyrogers/pseuds/morganmarston</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, the title says it all! I’m kidding! Arthur Morgan cannot thank the reader after she saves his life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Morgan/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>cursed words ;; arthur morgan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>How you doin’, cowgirls? I’m writing for Red Dead Redemption for the first time, so bear with me! I’m still getting the hang of writing about characters I’m not used to. I hope this turned out well! It wasn’t intended to be long, but here we are! Also, I’m sorry for any mistakes. Keep in mind that English is not my first language.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur Morgan rarely visited hotels, especially in Saint Denis, where the wealthiest citizens of Lemoyne glided across paved streets in luxurious carriages towards purposeless social gatherings. Today is an <b><em>exception</em></b>. Van der Linde’s camp had been settled near Beaver Hollow, in the Roanoke Ridge region of the New Hanover territory while Arthur wandered through Saint Denis, not in a luxurious carriage towards purposeless social gatherings, but on his horse returning from Bluewater Marsh.</p><p>Secretly working for Henri Lemiux, the mayor of Saint Denis, required a <b><em>night</em></b> routine. Moonlight dimly lit the roadway, elevated on woody boardwalks due to deposits of silt and mud flowing from the river; Arthur’s eyes squinted at the foggy scenery beyond him and his horse, silently cursing the lack of gaseous fuel to light the lantern hanging from the saddlebag over the back of his horse. He had investigated Bluewater Marsh in search of a band of painting smugglers, which sank into the silty and muddy soil refusing to negotiate with Mayor Lemiux, interested in enriching Saint Denis’ cultural background.</p><p>The damp wind blew silently, digging its way through leaves, branches and trunks. The sky was the navy blue of the ocean, and everything was quiet except for coyotes howling in the distance and the annoying crackle of woody wheels of a painting loaded wagon behind Arthur in its way to Saint Denis. He led the way, ignited senses wary of remaining smugglers. His horse nervously neighed causing Arthur to skillfully pull at the leather rein. “Yer alright, girl. Move on, there are few miles left for Saint Denis.”</p><p>Out of gaseous fuel and exhausted after a day traveling from Emerald Station to Saint Denis before meeting Mayor Lemiux and riding to Bluewater Marsh, Arthur unwillingly entered the Bastille Saloon, sighing heavily. The stolen platinum watch between his fingers indicated half past four, yet his surroundings buzzed in laughter and conversation and here and there drink was slopped from glasses over crowded poker tables, which squandered savings. Arthur wanted to enjoy that, but honestly, he was just there for a bath and a bed. At least on that particular night, he just cared about getting a good night’s sleep.</p><p>The bartender prepared an empty glass for Arthur as he approached the bar while adjusting his hat, but he quickly dismissed it. “Hey, sir, I’m ‘ere for a bath and for a room.”</p><p>“That’ll be $2,00. The farthest room is empty. The bathroom’s beside it,” The bartender mumbled, dirty fingers wrapping around the empty glass, a ragged grey dishcloth ranging from his shoulder. Arthur eagerly left the money on the wooden surface of the bar and made a beeline for the staircase, which led to the second floor, willing to abandon the overwhelming noise of the saloon. He followed the dimly lit corridor, its flowery wallpaper peeled from the walls and the wooden floor crackled underneath his dirty boots.</p><p>Arthur entered the bathroom, turning on the few gas lights, which flooded his surroundings in a comfortable yellow light, engulfing him in dizziness and exhaustion. He closed the lilac lacy curtains over both windows, their square windowpanes slightly dirty. The brass bathtub invitingly glowed before his eyes, impelling him to open the faucet and to strip himself naked, muddy clothes thrown into a pile over the soft rug laying near the bathtub. The sound of water hitting its base was music to Arthur’s ears; he desperately wanted to get rid of the damp Saint Denis’ air that sticked to his skin.</p><p>“YN!” The bartender exclaimed, kicking you awake, his boots staining your already overused dress.  “Wake up. A man’s in the bathroom. Go offer him your <b><em>services</em></b>, woman.”</p><p>You cursed him. Having been dragged to your senses, the uncomfortable surface of the bench you had been sleeping on became too much to bear as shots of pain travelled through your limbs. Your arms pulled you up and your bare feet touched the stony ground underneath them. With a cigarette between your fingers, you adjusted your hair and your dress the best you could. Abandoning the cigarette, it fell beside your feet and you – head empty, no thoughts – stepped on it, burning the skin and hissing at the consequences of your unthought action. <b><em>Whatever</em></b>. You needed to get out of that rat hole.</p><p>You made your way to the back of the saloon, crossing the bar and receiving a slap from one of the drunk men around the poker tables. You offered your body to people for money, but that didn’t mean they could do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. <b><em>Rats</em></b>. Swallowing your pride, fingers closing in a fist, you made a beeline for the staircase and ascended its woody steps. Your bare feet carried your emotionless self through the dimly lit corridor.</p><p>Soap bubbles escaped from the bathtub as the water menacingly reached its curvy edges, vapor rose in the air in what seemed lazy spirals. Arthur stepped inside, hissing at the hotness of the water, nonetheless letting it engulf his muscles, as though a mother lovely embracing her child and singing them to sleep. He rested his head against one end of the bathtub and closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the mother’s singing. His bag lay abandoned on the bathroom floor, the stolen platinum watch inside it, therefore he wasn’t sure for how long he had been there when your knock on the door dragged him to his senses, the first reaction of his muscles – an involuntary reaction – was to reach for his pistol, propped on the shampoo holder.</p><p>“Who’s there?”</p><p>“Sir… Would you like some help?” Your voice, a woman’s voice, floated to Arthur from the crack underneath the bathroom door. Wrapped in dizziness and tiredness, his brain lazily processed the words. Nevertheless, Arthur’s fingers momentarily tightened their grip around the pistol, reaching for its trigger – another involuntary reaction; he gulped after realizing the woman’s offer. The redness crawling up his naked chest and neck certainly was due to the hot bath, <b><em>right</em></b>? “U-Uh, no, ma’am. Hm, I’m alright.”</p><p>“No problem, sir. Have a good night,” You mumbled against the door, resting your forehead on its surface and secretly thanking the man for refusing your <b><em>services</em></b>. Well, if you had any honour left burning inside your system, this man spared you from completely losing it. Your footsteps cracked away, and Arthur rested the pistol on the shampoo holder once again. He exhaled, dragging his wet fingers through the dirty brown locks of his hair. It soon needed trimming. To avoid the shame crawling around his viscera for such an unexpected encounter, Arthur poured shampoo over his calloused hands to distract him from thinking about it and washed his hair, followed by his body.</p><p>“Why are you here, <b><em>woman</em></b>?” The bartender growled, pushing a drunk man from the bar, who motionlessly hit the ground. “Didn’t I tell–”</p><p>“Shut up, <b><em>man</em></b>. The man’s fine. He refused my <b><em>services</em></b>.” You, irritated, mumbled.</p><p>Returning to the bench you previously occupied, Alicia and Rooney left the saloon, pulling cigarettes from their wrinkled dresses and lighting them up. They silently offered you one, but you simply refused with a shake of the head. You submerged in an uneasy sleep, the buzz of the sleepless city you slowly sank yourself in constantly reminded where you belonged: to the scum of Saint Denis. Fuck the rich, who slept in comfortable beds and large rooms in larger mansions. You had a bench – sometimes a poor citizen’s house – and <b><em>debts</em></b>, which led you to a double life: bounty hunter at dawn and prostitute at dusk.</p><p>The bathroom sank in vapor when Arthur left it with a towel wrapped around his waist, switching off the gas lights. Everything was silent except for his steps on the battered wooden floor. The door to his room was unlocked and he gladly opened it with a feeble creak; a candle burned to its end, being the sole source of light alongside the moonlight that invaded the bedroom through its open curtains.</p><p>Throwing his dirty clothes into a wobbly chair, Arthur closed the curtains and rummaged through his belongings stuffed inside his bag. He pulled a wrinkled black Stand-Collar Overshirt and a pair of black Fancy Pants. He dressed himself and collapsed against the somewhat soft mattress, that stirred him to a dreamless sleep until the sunlight woke Arthur up. He repeatedly blinked, annoyed at the interruption. His calloused hands pressed over his eyes and he let himself slip back to dizziness, but Saint Denis didn’t want sleepers after half past eight. The streets buzzed in its daily activities and Arthur had no choice but to join them, preparing himself to leave Saint Denis to return to Beaver Hollow.</p><p>He packed everything inside his bag, put on his muddy Riding Boots and Kneller Spurs, his Fine Leather Suspenders and his Gunslinger Jacket. He adjusted his hat and hung his weapons on his back and shoulders. Leaving the bedroom, he descended the staircase towards the bar, where, again, the bartender prepared an empty glass for him, which he didn’t refuse. The saloon was empty, except for scattered drunk men sleeping on tables and two men leaning against the bar.</p><p>Crouched behind the bench, you ripped the stained dress from your body and shoved the piece of clothing underneath it, where you had plucked loose stones to dig a hole in the earth. Your bag, your hat and your clothing constantly smelled earth, but that was the price to pay for your mother’s debts. The yellow Molina Blouse combined with a stolen pair of black Hollman Pants, a pair of brown Moreton Boots and a black Leather Duster composed your bounty hunter outfit alongside a bandana and a hat. After adjusting your holster and your pistols around your waist, you covered the hole with earth, repositioning the loose stones over it.</p><p>“A glass of whisky, please,” Arthur sleepily mumbled and threw a coin on the bar when a punch hit the left side of his face, causing him to scream in pain and stagger towards the nearest round table. His left hand instinctively floated to the left side of his face while, with his right hand, he desperately tried to grasp the table, but knocked it down alongside him. “Jesus.”</p><p>“Arthur Morgan, Mayor Lemiux’s pet,” A voice mumbled over him. His blurred vision allowed him to count nine men. “Where’s the rest of the money for the paintings?”</p><p>“Yer got it, go away, <b><em>rats</em></b>,” Arthur managed to utter with gritted teeth.</p><p>The air was knocked out of his lungs when a kick hit the side of his body. Arthur groaned in pain. “Where’s the money, <b><em>cowpoke</em></b>?”</p><p>“Over your damn corpses if y’all don’t leave me alone, <b><em>idiots</em></b>,” Arthur threatened the men that were reduced to six when his blurred vision stubbornly faded away. Another round of kicks and punches. He felt blood pool inside his mouth, spitting it over one of the men’s boots. The air aggressively burning against the left side of his face indicated that his skin had been cut deep. One of the men spit on Arthur, who patiently waited for a breach to confront them. He wrapped his right arm around the wooden table, calculating the amount of damage he could do to the people around him.</p><p>“Gentlemen, would you fancy going outside?” The bartender threateningly asked, drawing a pistol and pointing it to the men who had cornered Arthur.</p><p>Three of the men drew their pistols, two of them pointing them to Arthur while the third man pointed it to the bartender. Well, Arthur was definitely running out of time. Gripping at the wooden base, he pulled the round table over his body. His right elbow and right shoulder violently cracked in response to the physical effort causing a curse to escape from Arthur’s lips while his left hand desperately aided his right one – fingers firmly wrapping around the table base and both arms pushing it towards the men who had drawn their pistols. They groaned at the aggressive impact of the wooden structure against their calves; a shot was misfired, hitting the wooden saloon floor beside a fourth man.</p><p>The bartender missed a shot as Arthur desperately crawled to the bar and propped himself up; his limbs agonizingly ached, his body begged for mercy. Staggering on his muddy boots, the first reaction of his muscles was to reach for both of his pistols, firing four shots in sequence. Yells echoed around the sleepy saloon. As a payback, a bullet agonizingly carved its way through the thin fabric of Arthur’s Fancy Pants, through the skin, and the muscles of his leg, ripping a scream from his viscera. Once again, Arthur’s body collapsed against the floor. Momentarily, his senses failed him. His accelerated heartbeat pumped against his eardrums; blood oozed from the throbbing bullet wound, soaking the fabric around it in a round dark spot.</p><p>A round of shots travelled to his ears and a pair of brown boots stepped in the fight. “Out, bastards! Out!”</p><p>The feminine voice tone caused Arthur to blink in confusion. Sadie Adler? He anxiously propped himself up in his elbows, but his right elbow failed him, and pain shot through his arteries and veins. The chink of Moreton Boots Arthur spotted using the fallen round table as shield indicated Sadie Adler wasn’t Arthur’s saviour. The shooting alarmed authorities in the area, drawing unwanted attention to the conflict.</p><p>“Sir, will you crawl to the bar? I’ll deal with the authorities and we’ll get you to a doctor.” You mumbled, firing three shots, alternating between pistols.</p><p>“I don’t need a doctor, woman,” Arthur groaned in response. Nevertheless, as he needn’t any more trouble with Saint Denis’ authorities. He gladly accepted your offer. Trying to move, he cursed as his muscles contracted and relaxed and pain throbbed through his limbs. Leaning against the inside of the bar, he heavily sighed, removing his jacket and using its sleeves as a torniquet. He tied them together above the bullet wound and snapped a bottle of whisky from one of the bar shelves. He popped it open and thirstily swigged the alcoholic drink. Then, he poured it over his wound and hissed silently at the intense burning sensation emanating from it in waves of pain. Blood flowed to his boots; he followed its path and noticed the bartender’s eyes open in a silent plea for help.</p><p>Arthur crawled to him and pressed his left ear against the man’s chest. Dead. “Jesus…”</p><p>He returned to the previous spot his body leaned against and drank the remaining liquid inside the whisky bottle. He pulled another one toward him and poured it over his face, washing his wounds. That bullet desperately needed to be ripped from his muscles, so, as you patiently chatted with – lied to – the authorities, Arthur pulled the bloody dishcloth to his lips, biting it hard as his fingers worked on removing the bullet from his leg. Blood oozed from the wound and dizziness infected his senses. He blinked in an attempt to maintain his focus, but tears blurred his vision.</p><p>Exploring the wound, he felt the metallic bullet against his fingers, pulling it slowly out. His jawline tensed against the dishcloth; his ragged breath was almost too loud for the authorities to listen; his eyes collected tears. Another swig from the second whisky bottle allowed him to pull the bullet out of his system. He poured more alcohol over the wound and pressed the dishcloth to it. His senses failed him once again and his eyes threatened to close. He desperately reached for the whisky bottle, chugging the drink into his system.</p><p>You hurried to the bar and knelt beside Arthur, evaluating the situation before your eyes. Blood stained the dishcloth pressed against the bullet wound as well as the man’s fingers. The vivid colour that once must’ve illuminated his features had been drained from him; he looked pale, as fragile as a porcelain utensil. “Yer not Sadie,” Arthur uttered. His voice dinged something inside your brain. Well, an innocent man at dusk and an outlaw at dawn.</p><p>“No, I ain’t. I’m the one who’ll take you to a doctor.”</p><p>“Or the one who’ll knock on bathroom doors.”</p><p>Gulping at the slurred words that cascaded from his lips, you swallowed your pride <b><em>again</em></b>. “Well, mister…”</p><p>“M-Morgan.” Arthur managed to say between violent coughing.</p><p>“Well, Mr. Morgan, I’m <b><em>surviving</em></b>,” Sarcasm dripped from your lips. “Let’s get you to a doctor.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry about ‘e. I just need another bottle of whisky.”</p><p>“Ye’ve lost a great amount of blood. I ain’t leaving you here to die.”</p><p>“Oh, you still carry honour after knocking at my door.”</p><p>“Yer no better than me, Mr. Morgan. Mayor Lemiux mentioned your name once.”</p><p>“Jesus, woman, alright.”</p><p>“Well, thanking me would oblige this conversation to change its route to a polite one. I sense your pride won’t allow you to do it, though. ‘Me, <b><em>Mr. Morgan</em></b>, saved by a prostitute?’”</p><p>Arthur opened his mouth to answer. Instead, he ended up licking his lips in nervousness. What was he doing? Arthur Morgan, an almost dead man judging people for surviving in an unfair world. Not every bastard encountered Hosea Matthew’s kindness along their path. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m sorry. I’m–”</p><p>“Well, that’s something’, Mr. Morgan.”</p>
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